


Working Man

by SubwayWolf



Category: Dark Avengers (Comic), Marvel, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boss/Employee Relationship, Coitus Interruptus, Drunk Blow Jobs, M/M, Mental Instability, Office Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:37:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SubwayWolf/pseuds/SubwayWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Director Osborn finds it difficult to force words out and express his feelings to his Sentry, so instead he uses alcohol to facilitate his suppressed emotions. Bob, however, is only focused on pleasuring his boss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Working Man

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, this was intended to be a fic for The Office (UK) but alas...

"A drunken man always speaks the truth." Norman Osborn had read that somewhere, but he'd forgotten where. Norman had always hated the truth, especially when he was around Bob. Norman was always obliged to tell Bob all truths when Osborn himself was drunk.

He knew it was going to happen. Norman and Bob had been having an affair for about a month now, and Norman's feelings for Bob were through the roof. However, Osborn was positive – well, almost positive, that Reynolds didn't feel the same. He didn't like thinking about it, he didn't like accepting the fact. But it was true. Bob didn't think the same way of Osborn as Osborn did for Bob. And Norman tried very hard to just deal with it and move on, but for some reason he wanted some sort of passion between what Bob did to him.

And that's why Osborn was uncomfortable with telling Bob how he felt; Bob was predictable, for one thing. Norman knew that once he said the words, Bob was going to stare at him with those constantly-confused eyes. Bob would feel bad. Bob would feel pressure. Bob would feel embarrassed and he would frown and he would say nothing. This was Bob’s way of rejecting people, since he was too nice and too mentally brittle to put on a stink face and walk away. Playing these scenes in his head hurt Osborn even more. But Norman figured, after a few more drinks, the truth would come out easier than it could ever have if it were accompanied with sobriety.

So Norman sat at his desk, leaning back into the green, leather spinning chair he loved so much, bottle in hand as he wiped the remainder of alcohol off his lips with the back of his hand. He sat with a pleased smirk on his face, head thrown back and eyes fluttered shut. He sat with his legs spread, slacks and briefs fallen to his ankles, humming with satisfaction as Bob crouched under the desk and ran his tongue up the length of Osborn's cock.

This had been happening almost every night since that one night they celebrated a victory alone together in Norman’s office. Osborn, thought pleased, wanted desperately to mix it up once in a while since blowjobs were getting kind of old, but Bob didn't know what else to do (or, more importantly, how to do it) so there was no chance there. And that was one of the main reasons why Norman would have a few drinks during it: so it would be less boring and more pleasurable.

Bob, his soft hands rubbing Osborn's testicles, sniffed Norman’s curly, reddish pubes as he sucked roughly on the cock in his mouth. He enjoyed sucking off his Mr. Osborn. Osborn was someone Bob looked up to since the day he received his job as an Avenger. Mr. Osborn deserved it, too; he goes around all day making sure everyone does their jobs. In return, he deserved a little bit of pleasure every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Bob was happy to give it to him, only if the other Avengers and H.A.M.M.E.R agents weren't around. Bob took all precautions: he would sneak out after sky patrol, draw the curtains, shut the door, and crawl under the desk to pull off Osborn's slacks and give him a thorough suck-off.

With secretaries escorted away, curtains drawn, and Victoria Hand nowhere in sight, Reynolds and Osborn could do absolutely anything. Unfortunately, "anything" was limited to only a single category: blowjobs. Bob was frustrated that he didn't know how to do anything else, and made a mental note to go to his room and read an article online on how to use his hand.

The hard liqueur burned the back of Osborn's throat. Fortunately, he knew that, if he drank more, the heat of the drink would eventually turn into a light tickle. Osborn refused to open his eyes, as he knew that at the peak of a high caused by drunkenness the world would be seen in a blur, thus signaling that he was drunk. Osborn didn't want to know when he was drunk. He'd rather the truth slip out without much thought or notice on its own, not with a clear sobriety that he'd be bound to remember and regret the next day. He wanted to speak against his own recognizance.

This was unlikely to come quickly, however, as Norman had never been honest. Not to himself or not even to other people. He had always felt that covering up the truth was much easier than speaking it. His fears outweighed what he was proud of by a million to one, but nobody had to know. Yes, his mental state was pathetic. Yes, he sometimes would cry alone in his office and drink himself to sleep, but still. Norman felt it better to keep his words engulfed in tears or brandy than to share them with someone and sound ridiculous; more ridiculous than his current condition actually was.

Having an affair with the Sentry? That schizophrenic of a lap dog? Norman wondered if he could get any lower. He supposed he could have: Osborn himself could have been the one under the desk. He was happy to know that he wasn't, but even though that was a good thing it still didn't make him feel any better. But what did make Osborn feel better, although gradual, was his drink.

Perhaps he should look past Bob's schizophrenia, cowardice, and lack of social skills. It was only fair, for Bob had ignored Norman’s god complex and his own personal case of schizophrenia. Bob was undoubtedly a beautiful man. He had those fire-piercing blue eyes and those long, golden locks Norman sometimes ran his fingers through while Bob’s head was between Norman’s legs. He was in perfect physical condition and he had soft lips and a smile that was always genuine. Norman had dealt with enough assholes to have the ability to tell the difference between a fake and genuine smile. Bob’s smiles were always genuine. Always.

Osborn opened his eyes a little to see how his drunkenness was progressing, and he saw the world in a fuzzy, pixilated blue. He cursed himself for peeking, because originally he told himself he would not. But he figured, since he felt the buzz in the back of his brain, he would have known anyway. With his eyes opened completely, he marveled at the blur in his vision. He noticed the truth inching his way up his windpipe and almost going to come out. Panicking, He decided to start his reality-speaking off with a short prologue so his objective words didn't come out spasmodically.  
"Hey, Bob…" Osborn choked out unenthusiastically. "I, uh…can you- I mean, I…can I tell you something?"

In reply, Reynolds let out a small hum, obviously not wanting to divert himself from his current actions. Bob figured that the hum would be a sort of universal sign that he was paying attention. Paying attention was a term used loosely. Bob was focused on the task at hand. He wasn’t in this game for his own pleasure; he was in it for Norman’s. So every suck, every fondle, every lick up the length of his shaft was planned perfectly. He didn’t want to do something wrong. Really, he was afraid to do something wrong.

Bob listened somewhat-keenly as Osborn said, "Okay. Look. Prelude: I'm really drunk and this is hopefully going to be forgotten in a handful of hours, so if you'd be so kind to not speak of this, that would be great…" Osborn's voice trailed off as there was a knocking at the door.

At the noise, Bob removed himself from Norman's body and backed himself up under the mahogany desk. He froze, a salty taste in his mouth, wide-eyed with fear. He brought his knees to his chest and hugged them.

"Director Osborn," said a stern voice Bob recognized as Miss Victoria Hand. Bob knew he would be in trouble if she knew what he did to Osborn every other weekday. Osborn would get mad, too. His face would turn red like it does when he shouts. Bob almost got lost in memory, but luckily regained his center of attention and continued to focus on not being seen.

Victoria continued, "The Sentry never came back from his lunch break. Again. This is the third time this week. We need to know where he is, Director Osborn. We cannot have a man with his power flying off. If he doesn't come back soon, we need to start worrying. Can you call him on his communication device and tell him to get back here? You have a meeting scheduled at one thirty."

Osborn tried his best to sound sober, and he usually was very good at acting. He always had to fake sober up whenever he hosted Avengers meetings, spoke in front of the press, or arrived at work in the morning. And he had so much practice that he had mastered the art of false sobriety. Although Victoria’s face along with the room around her was moving in all different directions, Norman wasn't going to give the slightest hint that it was occurring. "Well," Osborn said, managing not to slur, "You can call him. Yell at him yourself. Discipline him. Not in a kinky way. But you know."

Victoria stared back with a furrowed brow. She got out her phone and began to dial. As she pushed the buttons, she said, "Mr. Osborn, you’re acting strange. When was the last time you took your medication?"

Norman then stared at the floor and fabricated an excuse, but he couldn't think of one.

Victoria put the phone to her ear. Only then did Osborn realize the mistake he had made by telling him to call Bob. Osborn silently prayed to a god or two that Bob didn't have his communication device on him.

A soft beeping noise bled out of small speakers under Osborn's desk. Norman's eyes widened. Bob's heart stopped. Victoria's eyebrows rose.

Bob scrambled to get his phone out of his pocket and then placed it in Osborn's trembling hands, hoping he would do something with it, hoping he would be smart and make something up.

Norman stuttered, holding the mobile in front of him for Victoria to see, "Oh, yeah, I… have Bob's communication device."

Victoria hung up her call. "What?" She slipped her phone into her pocket. "Why do you have it?"

"He didn't want to lose it when he was getting lunch."

Victoria held back an eye roll and took a breath to keep herself from asking questions. However, she was too bemused to refrain. "Why did you tell me to call him then?"

Osborn looked around the room as if the answer was printed on a wall somewhere. He began to sweat as he couldn't fabricate anything while under the lethal combination of pressure and drunkenness.

Somehow, he managed to shrug and choke out, "Forgot." He wasn't proud of his response, but it satisfied Victoria enough. She was too annoyed to stand it any longer. She spun around on a heel and left the room, pinching the bridge of her nose and mumbling something to herself. Victoria had been getting fed up easily lately and Osborn didn't know why, but he didn't care anyway.

A sense of relief passed through Norman, or maybe it was alcohol poisoning. Nevertheless, Norman had gotten away with murder, practically.

Bob climbed out from underneath the desk, untangling his messed up hair along the way. Norman wanted to shove the blonde-haired boy back under the desk and make him finish what he started. But sobriety was already catching up to him, gradually.

Osborn was thankful, even though he didn't really seize the opportunity to tell Bob how he felt. He was just happy to not be high anymore. It ultimately depressed him further when he was hung over, so he always questioned himself upon why he got drunk in the first place. It was a massively depressing ordeal that Osborn hated going through.

Meanwhile, Bob just hoped he didn't smell like cock.

Norman didn't even look at Reynolds as Bob climbed out the back window of Osborn's office. Norman muttered a soft, "bye" before Bob closed the window and made flew away, only to return to a different exit moments later.

Osborn rubbed his aching temple with the heel of his hands, trying to forget about Bob, and, in its place, responsibly scold himself for being an idiot and getting drunk at work again.


End file.
